Anger is blinding, but jealousy is blind: she could not be reasonable, and she would not. Tom had disgraced himself and degraded her, and his step was on the stairs. Her anger would have allowed her to throw herself into his arms, and say, “Forgive me, Tom, I was angry,” but her jealousy forbade her. So she stood where she was with her back to the window, so that her face was in shadow, and when he came in she neither spoke nor gave any sign.
He sat down near her, and after a moment’s silence held out his hand to her. May had long white fingers, and they often sat together talking, she twining her fingers into his, and the action was common with him. But she stood quite still, and his hand dropped again to his side. At length he spoke.
“May, how can you treat me like this?” he said. “What have I not done that I can do? It was not very pleasant to have you speak to me as you spoke this afternoon; but I accepted your decision at once; I did not attempt to persuade you?”
“It would not have been much use trying,” said May in a high cool voice.
“I should not have tried in any case,” said he. “I only wished to know what you thought, and I was content to abide absolutely by your decision.”
“Why did you open the subject again, then,” said she with a sudden spasm of jealousy, “unless it was to try to persuade me?”
Tom thought of the marble figures he had been looking at, and remembered what they had taught him.
“May dear, please don’t speak to me like that,” he said quietly. “You know—you know that was not the reason.”
“Then what was the reason?”
“The look of your face and the tone of your voice was the reason. You are not generous to me; you will not meet me halfway or go a step towards me.”